Dance Party Animals

As soon as I clear the coffee table from my dance floor, Hunter the resident puppy dog here, plops himself down in it's place.
He never misses an opportunity to exercise.
The instructor on the DVD says it is okay if there are things in our way.
We should dance around obstacles.
Hunter doesn't budge even when I shimmy in his face.
This dance teacher is pretty cool.
Someday I am going to be just like her.


As soon as they figure out how to reverse aging and a handful of other things.
She is inspiring.
She is a confidence builder.
And she can dance.
I like it when she says, "There is no right or wrong way to do this. We should all look different."
Well, that is for damn sure.
But Tuna, the cat who wanders around this house in a tuxedo looking for trouble, pays no attention to her uplifting words.
He is a teenager.
At least he usually finds a spot to gawk at the show that is out of my way.
He can't help it that he does have naturally round googly eyes.
But, come on.


Between hopping over an old guy sleeping in the middle of my dance floor and that kid staring at me, I sometimes miss a beat.
Each new dance workout starts with easy instructions.
"Listen to the beat. Ready? Walk, walk, shimmy, shimmy. Walk, walk, shimmy, shimmy."
I walk, walk and I shimmy, shimmy.
I walk, walk and I shimmy, shimmy.
Disclaimer: One person's shimmy can be another person's, "What the hell is she doing?"
Things were going pretty well around my fifth session.
I was getting into it.
And then she threw in a shuffle.
What the heck exactly is a shuffle?


You know what, Tuna?
This is a dance party.
She said we should all look different.
Lately I have been enjoying life to the fullest. My sweet Sven sees me pull out my DVD and he gets in his truck and drives away.
I am a movin' and a groovin' and a shakin' in my living room.
And yeah.
I believe I may be starting to get the hang of this.
Not the kind of hang of this where I wouldn't feel the need to murder a delivery man if one came to my door.
I remain hopeful that someday I will only have the desire to maim an unsuspecting house caller.
Yesterday Tuna fell asleep in the box that sits on top of my desk.
I left my office, closed the door quietly and went straight downstairs to rescue Grandma Meow Moses from her fancy basement apartment.
She and the tuxedo kid are the opposite of best friends. But they have been thrown together to live in the same house, by a power much higher than all of us.
The little lady ignored my invitation to a dance party and continued to lap up her milk.
"Okay," I said. "Your choice, Grandma. But you do not know what you are missing."
I pushed the coffee table out of the way.
Hunter Bunter circled five times and dropped into place.
I put the DVD in the player and....
There I was, a walking and a shimmying and having a generally good time.
I was in the middle of a shuffle over the top of my snoring counterpart when I happened to catch a glimpse of the little old party crasher.
There, sitting on the landing above my dance class video, was Grandma Meow Moses, looking down upon me.
I almost missed googly eyes.


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